


The Poor Wren

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Babies, Motherhood, Suspense, Worry, the moment before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9620051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: She jumps at every shadow but must be strong for her children. Her husband has been gone a long while and his absence grows harder to ignore, to explain. She takes distractions where she can get them.An imagining of Lady Macduff's last peaceful moment.





	

The woman has almost fallen asleep by the fireplace; lulled into distracted security by the warmth of the flickering flames. She embraces these moments of distraction, of peace though they grow ever more rare. Moments to appreciate the simple things. How the clouds have parted for the first time in nearly a week, and the sky behind them is a wash of pink and red. How the cushioning on the worn rocking chair molds perfectly to her back. She must remind herself of these blessings, then count them to make sure they’re all there. It keeps thoughts of battle and bloodshed and betrayal at bay.

Movement against her chest brings her attention to her infant son, wriggling in his swaddling. Another blessing. Like her he cannot escape, but does not care to. It is so calm where they are now. So familiar. She holds him closer to her heart and hopes he will not notice its anxious rhythm.

It’s hard to say how long she’s been sitting here, by the fire. She’s barely moved, just a simple rocking to soothe her squirming son. His cherubic face is surrounded by a fleecy white halo, red against the pale blanket. Flushed. Is it the fire or a fever? Steady in her cradled arms she moves the bulk of him to the crook of her left elbow so she can lightly feel his forehead, his cheeks. It’s the fire. It’s just the fire. She knows fevers. She once lifted her eldest out of the bath and by the temperature of his underarms she knew. Something was wrong, she knew, and she had gotten him to bed, and he had been fine.

Like this little one, her youngest, he is alright. For now. It’s just the fire.

She studies the bridge of his nose, seeing the broadness of her husband’s, and the rounded button tip of her own copied there. She taps it lightly and makes a silly noise. Mischief alights in the baby’s eyes and she does it again, eliciting a gummy giggle.

He manages to free a chubby arm, the tiny hand reaching for the tip of her braid, resting just below her collarbone. Seeing this, she dips her head a little so he can bat at it. He clutches the end and swings it back and forth experimentally. This makes her smile, but the braid reminds her that this morning just before fixing it in place, she noticed a few front strands had lost their rich colouring; had faded to a solemn grey. They clashed with the ochre river spilling down her back, but matched the deepening lines, and shallow bags around and beneath her eyes. She hid the grey beneath a criss-cross of brown and put it from her thoughts.

She has never been concerned too much about her age. She understands how lost time, wasted years will find you and etch themselves into your flesh, but surely she is not that old. She brings the hand that was hovering around her son’s nose closer to her own for inspection. Examining it for any signs of age, tilting it curiously into the light from the fire. No spotted skin, or gnarled knuckles. She traces around the hollow of her slender neck – no wrinkles there. So what then? Worry? Does her body accept what her mind avoids?

The baby burbles delightedly as he yanks her braid and she winces a little, surprised. She gently pries her hair from his fingers and places it back over her shoulder, admonishing her son with a quirked eyebrow, and forming her mouth into an exaggerated “o”. She isn’t angry, not really. He knows, clever boy. Clever, and precious, and bundled safely in her arms –

A flicker of something catches her eye through the window. A messenger? Her husband? A trick of the light? An icy stream of water trickles through her ribcage and she instinctively clutches her baby a little tighter. No name for the fear that suddenly grips her. She would scold herself for the action; brush it off. But it was instinct that told her her eldest had a fever and she’d been right about that.

The sun sinks below the horizon, purple clouds converging, blocking out any pinprick of starlight. Son held close she waits, shadows from the firelight dancing on the dark semi-circles below her watchful eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: This is a character sketch I did for a creative writing class. I tried to start, like, 4 others that weren't Shakespeare related, hated all of them, and went back to Shakespeare.   
> Never thought a whole lot about the other Lady M - how fast does she get thrown under the bus, eh? Then I heard someone read one of her lines and her total vulnerability really got me. I mean, she can't do ANYTHING. Can't run, can't stay, can't fight, can't defend herself. So I came up with this "moment before" and tried to explore how stuck she is, how frightened, but still tries the make the best of it. Then murder. Of course murder.  
> Thanks for reading :)


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